


Body, Mind and Soul

by kuiske



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swearing, rating will change to explicit in the next chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 10:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11507529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: On his darkest days Thorin dragged himself through despair and self-loathing with nothing but sheer stubbornness, convinced every time that surelythiswould be the final straw for his family who’d put up with him for decades already - but he knew Dwalin had never been prone to moods as black as his.No, when Dwalin got bad he got... just like that.Fuck.





	Body, Mind and Soul

Thorin crawled out of the tent yawning and glaring balefully at the swiftly rising spring sun. The morning was crisp and clear and he’d slept like a log through the night, but his head still felt like it was full of fluff and trying to rub sleep from his eyes only seemed to grind it in deeper. He would’ve given all the gold in Erebor for a mug of coffee, but since both were equally out of his reach at the moment, he had to contend himself with splashing some cold water on his face before shuffling towards the fires for breakfast.

He accepted a bowl of porridge from the cook with an unintelligible grunt that passed for both ‘thanks’ and ‘good morning’. A disapproving voice at the back of his mind that sounded awfully lot like the combination of his mother and Balin reminded him of _manners_ , but luckily the cook was an old greybeard who’d witnessed three generations worth of royal morning moods and was prone to react with amusement rather than offence. _‘Not an excuse,’_ his inner etiquette instructor reprimanded. Thorin ignored it. 

He went on to slump down next to Dwalin, who didn’t come across as particularly alert either. He was sitting on a half-buried log with an empty bowl in his hands, and his greeting was somehow even more monosyllabic than Thorin’s. Maybe he hadn’t gotten much sleep before he’d had to get up for the night watch, or perhaps there was something in the air of this place that’d caused an outbreak of general grogginess. Who knew?

Thorin was three spoonfuls into his porridge when he reached to adjust the hammer in the loop of his belt and promptly cursed under his breath instead. There was no hammer, because evidently he’d been too bloody asleep to remember the _tools of his trade_ , like a month-old apprentice who couldn’t grow a beard if he tried. He suppressed a groan, poorly. 

This was really shaping up to be one of _those_ mornings.

Thorin nudged Dwalin with his shoulder.

“Dwalin, my strong right hand,” he wheedled outrageously. “You mind getting my hammer for me, I _just_ sat down?”

He fully expected Dwalin to roll his eyes and cuff him over the head, and maybe grumble something about not making it _his_ problem if there was no room for memory in a certain princely head – but he didn’t. He nodded once and got up with a shaky exhale and started towards the tents with a drag in his step more suitable for a dwarf returning from a day of hard labour than one just about to start. No cheerful suggestions for Thorin to go fuck himself, no blunt refusal, not so much as a single word. Dwalin hadn’t even put his bowl down.

The teasing smile froze on Thorin’s lips and suddenly he was as wide awake as he'd ever been.

Fuck.

They both had their share of bad nerves and frustration and anger, but those weren't particularly difficult to deal with when you got down to it. Sparring was an efficient cure for inexplicable bouts of bad temper.

Thorin wasn't a stranger to truly bad days, either - and those we much harder to struggle through - but he knew Dwalin had never been prone to moods as black as his, no matter how bad it got.

(On his darkest days Thorin dragged himself through despair and self-loathing with nothing but sheer stubbornness, convinced every time that surely _this_ would be the final straw for his family who’d put up with him for decades already, surely _now_ they'd realise they deserved so much _better_ , surely now they'd finally leave even though they never had before...)

No, when Dwalin got bad he got... just like that.

_Fuck._

The first time Thorin remembered this happening he’d walked into the forge to find Dwalin just standing there, staring listlessly at the cold furnace he was supposed to have lit an hour ago. He’d told him that he was fine, that nothing was the matter, but Thorin had been the one who'd lit the fire in the end - after picking the tinderbox out of Dwalin’s hands. He hadn’t seemed to have realised that he’d been holding it.

It hadn’t gotten any better after that. Their tools and materials and the lists of orders hadn’t seemed to have made any sense to Dwalin at all, as if the steps in the job he’d done every day for years were suddenly beyond his comprehension. Thorin had been certain that Dwalin was sick, but there hadn’t been even a trace of fever on him, nor signs of any other harm. And yet the way Dwalin had looked at him had been so _wrong_ it had chilled him to the bone. 

He'd looked so defeated. 

So _lost._

Thorin would’ve sent him straight back to bed, but Balin, Dís and Víli had all been away, and he hadn’t wanted to leave him alone like that. Neither had Dwalin wanted to be left alone, and he’d practically pleaded to be allowed to stay and work. 

Thorin had recognised the sentiment well enough. Dwalin had _known_ that he wasn’t ill, that he shouldn’t have needed help with any of this, that he should’ve managed on his own. Only he couldn’t. Couldn’t summon up enough energy to think his way through anything or concentrate on reading an order. He hadn't even had enough fight in him to get angry about it all. No dwarf liked feeling useless, and if it happened like _this_ … It was spoken of only in whispers when it happened like this, and with words no one ever wanted to hear. But if Dwalin could still work… Nothing could be that badly wrong if one could still work, and that's what he'd had to hold on to. 

Somewhere beneath all that lethargy Dwalin had been _terrified_.

Thorin had guided him through his tasks as discreetly as he could, and Dwalin had seemed to have found some comfort in his proximity. The familiar routine of shaping hot iron with his hammer had helped him even more.

He’d thought.

The next day Dwalin hadn’t gotten out of bed at all.

Thorin had been so scared he’d almost thrown up.

It had passed though. It happened again after that, not often but it happened, and it always passed.

It just usually didn’t happen where Dwalin would have to sit in a saddle almost every day.

Thorin cursed himself harshly as he watched Dwalin return. How long had this been going on? How the _hell_ could he have missed this happening to his own lover? Wasn’t he supposed to look after his people?

With some difficulty Thorin forced his self-accusations to the back of his mind for now, and took both the hammer and the porridge bowl out of Dwalin’s hands as gently as he could.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Sit down, will you, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Thorin washed the bowls and returned them to a basket by the cook-fires as quickly as he could. When he got back, Dwalin was waiting for him exactly where he’d left him.

Thorin didn’t waste any time asking how he was doing.

“I’m so sorry,” he said instead, sitting down next to him. “It’s a little over a week to Ered Luin, if the weather holds. Do you think you can hold out if we travel at normal speed?”

Dwalin nodded.

Thorin reached out to cup his cheek, an overwhelming display of affection for a public one. 

“You tell me if you can’t. And that’s an order,” he said firmly. “Will you come to work?”

“Aye. I don’t want...” Dwalin glanced at the rest of the caravan bustling about in preparation for the day.

“I know.”

If he wouldn’t work, everyone would be able to tell that something was wrong. 

Dwalin didn’t want anyone else to know.

(Of course if it turned out that he couldn’t ride and had to travel in one of the wagons instead, everyone would _see_. Thorin would have to try and make sure that wouldn’t happen.)

“Come on, then,” he said and got up, helping Dwalin to his feet as well. “There was a halfling that put in an order for a hundred nails. It’s dull and simple, and it's work that needs doing.”

Dwalin nodded again and leaned into Thorin briefly before following him to their makeshift forges.

Almost two weeks still on the road.

_Maker give him strength._


End file.
